


second verse, same as the first

by duckgirlie



Category: History Boys - Bennett
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Canon Queer Character, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 19:11:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5467811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckgirlie/pseuds/duckgirlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>thirty years later, history has a chance to rattle backwards and correct itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	second verse, same as the first

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shinobi93](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinobi93/gifts).



> happy yuletide!
> 
> Just a quick note - this is set in a future that would work with either the film or play canon. The only issue is, I genuinely couldn't remember if Irwin is canonically still in a wheelchair by the end of the play, and I didn't have my copy around to check (and the film isn't clear). I didn't want to erase his disability, so in this he uses a cane during the actual fic, and talks about using a wheelchair at other times.
> 
> Thanks to all my twitter ladies for their help, jumping in every time I tweeted out a bizarrely specific question to help me out, and for offering all their beta help to a fandom they didn't now.

It's not the kind of event where Tom is expecting any surprises. He's been to this annual benefit before, even if he can't quite remember exactly what it's for. It might not even be a benefit so much as some kind of gala, though his ticket cost enough he'd hope the money was going _somewhere_ other than the centerpieces, tasteful and ornate as they might be.

The crowd is the usual mix of wealthy private citizens of varying influence and minor celebrities, many too minor for Tom to recognise in more than a cursory way. He slowly picks his way to his table through the throng of bodies and settles in, hoping he won't have to wander around too much. People can come to him if they feel the pressing need for his attention.

He glances around the table to see who he's been saddled with. There's a middle-aged lesbian couple he doesn't recognize at all, a girl with a ridiculous sideways mullet who barely looks old enough to be out of school, a guy he thinks is on Holby City, and an empty chair on Tom's right. He's in the middle of thinking that he needs to get a better table next year, or even skip it entirely, when someone he hasn't seen in decades drops into the seat next to him.

Dakin looks almost the same as ever, but in a more expensive suit. His hair is still thick and dark, save for a tiny creeping of grey at the temples. Age looks good on him.

It's not surprising, really. Dakin is exactly the kind of man who would age well, too confident for it to do anything else. Even the grey hair doesn't take away from it, sitting on him like his Bulgari watch and Hermes tie, just another sign of established status.

He leans over to shake the hands of everyone else at the table, smiling graciously at the middle aged lesbians and brightly at the girl with the side-mullet. The guy from Holby City is clearly taken in, his hand lingering in Dakin's for just a second too long, and Dakin has to pull his back before the moment passes through into awkward.

Finally, he turns to Tom and holds out his hand, raising a challenging eyebrow. Tom rolls his eyes a tiny bit before taking it.

Dakin's handshake is as perfect as the rest of him, and it takes Tom a second to remember if he'd ever actually shaken it before, back when everything was going on.

"It's been a while." said Dakin.

Tom laughs. "That's something of an understatement."

The guy from Holby City is looking between them like he's trying to gauge the situation, which only makes Tom want to laugh even more. Instead, Dakin drops Tom's hand after a final tiny squeeze and turns to the table.

"We knew each other in school," he explains, even if it wasn't necessary.

"In a manner of speaking," Tom feels the need to tack on. "I didn't think this was your scene."

He says this last to Dakin alone, who grins again and shrugs. "and you believed me, did you?"

"Against all evidence to the contrary. I suppose."

"I thought I was being sincere, at the time."

"Took it up full-time in Oxford then? You wouldn't be the first."

"Part-time, but with no less dedication."

Tom snorts, and he's about to reply when a hush falls over the room and the speeches start.

He zones out a little. He doesn't feel guilty because he's pretty sure he knows exactly what's being said, the same thing that's said at all of these events. Instead, he watches Dakin's hands on the table, his thumb tracing the rim of his wine glass while he pays closer attention to the speeches then Tom is.

It takes Tom a second to realize Dakin's talking to him.

"When did we start calling ourselves queers? Is that the thing now?"

He knows what he means. On stage, someone from some organisation or another is talking about the Queer Community and how wonderful it is, and Tom's a historian, he gets word drift and context of community and reclamation and all of that, but there's still always going to be a tiny prickle on the back of his neck every time he hears the word.

He shrugs to dislodge it. "It's what the young people are into. Iconoclasm and reclamation and everything. Did they not teach you that at some point? Oxbridge isn't what it used to be."

Dakin taps the side of his glass. "No one really stops to discuss nomenclature when you're sucking them off."

It takes everything Tom has not to choke on his wine.

“I can see how that could get in the way of a solid grounding in theory.

There's a lull in the speeches and a waiter stops by to offer them a top-up. They both take one, because open bars are one of the benefits to this kind of thing. Around the room, the crowd is shuffling as people take the chance to stretch their legs and mingle around the tables.

It takes less than a minute for someone to approach their table to ask Dakin a question. A young man - a boy, really, Tom thinks dismissively - shakes his hand and starts in on some long explanation of something or the other that Dakin had done, and he almosts reminds Tom of Posner, back in the day.

The boy doesn't actually remind him of Posner, not really. He's taller and spends more time in the gym then Posner ever would have, but he recognises the look on his face, the look of someone entranced with Dakin.

If he's going to be honest, it's a look he recognises from more faces than just Posner's, but he's willing to grant himself a little leeway in the circumstances. It's been years, after all.

It's as if the first boy opens the floodgates, and for the entirety of the next two speeches Dakin is fielding interest from a string of identikit young men in expensive suits (though none as expensive as Dakin's, or even his own) shaking his hand just a little too long and telling them how much they admire him.

Tom finds it hilarious that Dakin appears to be a little embarrassed by the attention. The fourth young man, probably 6'2 and with shoulders like a prop forward, rests his free hand on Dakin's shoulder. He's clearly making a play for something more than a brief chat, and Tom finds it a little fascinating to see someone approach Dakin with equal confidence. From what he remembers, he assumes it's more likely to lead to success then pining from afar ever would. The man is gorgeous, and Tom is already wondering if he's going to be spending the rest of the evening alone.

He's actually a little surprised when Dakin skillfully drops his shoulder out from under the man's hand, takes his offered card, and sends him on his way.

"What? Not my type, anyway."

The way Dakin's eyes flicked over his retreating back mean Tom doesn't take that entirely as read, but it's only a second before Dakin's eyes are back on him. He grins a little at Tom's raised eyebrow.

"What, don't believe I've changed? It's not all about getting any willing hand on your cock anymore. Besides, I don't fuck Tories. Anymore."

Tom forgoes a sip on his whiskey and carefully sets the glass on the table, raising his eyebrow again as he takes in the full expanse of Dakin's carefully visible wealth.

Dakin rolls his eyes and knocks back the end of his own drink. "My mum would kill me. Kill me, tell my dad I'd disgraced the family, and bar my ghost from the house."

Tom still hasn't said anything, but he takes another sip of his drink. Dakin rolls his eyes again.

"You've gotten better at not talking, anyway. Waiting for people to trip themselves up. Does that help, with your lot? Treating them like rowdy schoolboys?"

Tom gives a barely perceptible shrug. "I don't have a 'lot'."

They both pause for a moment as the waiter refills their glasses. Tom taps his thumb on the edge of the glass for a moment before looking up.

"Does this mean you were one of the ship jumpers? How'd the disillusionment set in, did it start at the joint press conference or did you manage to cling to that hope for a few weeks longer?"

"Fuck off." Dakin drains his glass in one go. "It was a brief moment of madness, it won't happen again."

Tom wants to press a little harder, now he's in his comfort zone, but he knows enough transient Lib Dems to know not to push it, so he lets it go.

The waiter is back, but Dakin waves him off from refilling his glass, and Tom's is still mostly full. On stage, it looks like the speeches are over, the podium cleared away to make room for a set of decks. The girl with the side mullet whose name Tom has already forgotten and the guy from Holby City are already shoving their chairs back to stand and join the dance floor.

Dakin rolls his eyes and checks his watch.

"Not a dancer?" Tom asks lightly.

"Not anymore."

He can tell Dakin's about to ask the same question back, but his eyes catch on the cane leaning against his chair and his mouth snaps shut. There's a couple of seconds of silence before Tom takes pity and checks his own watch.

"It's getting late."

Dakin sits up a bit. "Do you have a car waiting?"

Tom shrugs. "I can order one."

"Don't bother, my driver's here. He can drop you off."

Dakin stands and offers Tom a hand. They're about to turn and make their way towards the exit when someone catches Tom's eye and he groans.

"Sorry, there's someone over there who I have to talk too."

Dakin shrugs. "Toss me your cloakroom ticket and I'll meet you out front, my driver won't mind waiting a bit."

He watches Dakin go, navigating through the room with ease and managing to avoid getting drawn into any conversations. He knows he's not going to be so lucky, and he carefully picks his way over to the far side of the room.

It takes him longer then he wants; he's already feeling worn down from standing this evening, and he knows he's going to be using his chair again tomorrow. But he hadn't wanted to spend the night maneuvering through a crowded and carpeted event hall on wheels.

The conversation is easier to get out of than he’d feared, Adam Kenyon just wants gossip under the guise of political networking. He tries to find out how Tom knows Dakin, who apparently has just as much of a reputation as he would have imagined if he'd stopped to think about it. Tom demurs as much as he can, and isn't above leaning heavily against an empty chair until Adam finally feels awkward enough to let him leave.

Outside, Dakin's waiting on the hotel's steps, wearing his own coat with Tom's slung over his arm. He barely has a chance to say thanks for waiting before the sleek black car pulls up. Dakin waves the driver away when he steps out, and opens the door for Tom himself.

The inside of Dakin's car feels as expensive as everything else he owns, and Tom settles back into the leather seats as they pull into traffic. They both had their phones out, flipping through whatever messages were apparently important enough to send out on a Friday evening. He's rolling his eyes at the panicked email from his assistant and typing out a terse reply when it occurs to him that neither Dakin nor his driver had asked for his address.

The car pulls to a stop on an exclusive street in North London. Tom glances out the window.

Dakin reaches out to touch his forearm. "Come up for a drink?"

Tom sighs and shoves his Blackberry into his pocket. "Dakin..."

"I think we're a little past last names by now, yeah? It's Stuart."

Tom blinks at him for a second. "Tom."

Dakin - _Stuart_ smiles warmly. "Come up for a drink. It's still early enough."

It only takes him a second to agree, and Stuart climbs out of the car and comes around to open Tom's door, ushering him into the apartment building. Stuart's apartment takes up an entire floor near the top, and the lift ride takes just long enough for the silence to slide from comfortable into awkward, and Tom starts reconsidering if he should even be here.

When they're finally inside, Stuart ushers him quickly through the halls until they arrive in what seems to be a study. There's a huge desk to one side and worn-in leather furniture, and floor-to-ceiling windows showing off an amazing view of London. There's a pile of wht seems to be a pink sweatshirt and gossip magazines on the end of the sofa, and Stuart makes a face and tosses the pile onto a chair in the corner.

"Sorry, Sophia - she's thirteen, she's with her mother right now - likes to spread everything she owns across as many surfaces across the entire flat as she can manage."

The idea of _Dakin_ having kids is even stranger then the idea of him being here in Stuart's flat, having a late night drink and god knows what else.

Tom takes a seat on the cleared sofa and loosens his tie. Across the room, Stuart tosses his jacket lightly over his desk chair and pulls his own tie entirely off. He reaches into the cupboard and pulled out a bottle of Laphroaig. He grabs two heavy-bottomed glasses and tosses Tom a bottle of water before collapsing onto the sofa beside him.

"If you want ice, let me know and I'll grab you the cheap stuff."

Tom snorts and holds his glass out. Stuart sloshes a good inch into the bottom of the glass, careful not to hit the neck off the rim but not worrying if any splashes out. 

A drop splashes out and hits Tom on the side of his thumb. He reflexively puts his hand to his mouth to lick it off, and tries not to think about Stuart's eyes tracking the movement.

He lowers the glass and meets Stuart's eyes, holding his gaze as they clink their glasses together. Tom takes a sip. The whisky is smokey and expensive, and the buzz on his tongue doesn't linger too long.

"Thirty years late, but I finally got you that drink."

"I think you'd promised me more than a drink."

Stuart grins. "You remember."

"It's not exactly the kind of thing you forget."

Stuart sips his whisky. “Did you feel old tonight, or was it just me?”

“I feel old most nights.”

“You are tired,  
(I think)  
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;  
And so am I.”

Tom tries not to laugh. He really does, but he can’t help it.

“Are you quoting ee. cummings at me? Is this a seduction technique?”

“I don’t know. Is it working?”

"I can’t really say. It’s more effort than you put in when you were eighteen, I suppose."

"It worked, didn't it? Or would have, anyway."

Tom swirls the end of the whisky around his glass. "Subjunctive history."

"Another turning point."

“I didn’t think you’d still think about it.” 

“Well I’m not tearing my hair out over missed chances, but from time to time you cross my mind and…”

Tom smiles. “You’re quoting something.”

Stuart shrugs, a small smile pulling at his lips. “Probably.”

“It’s no ee. cummings, whatever it is.”

“Few things are. Can I kiss you now?”

It’s not even really a question, the way he says it. Like Tom saying yes is a forgone conclusion.

It takes him a second to respond, even if there’s no question what his answer will be. He finishes off the end of his drink and sets the glass on the side table, turning to Stuart when he’s done.

“Yes.”

Stuart reaches over and curls his hand around Tom’s jaw to pull him in, just slow enough for Tom to finally wonder if this is a terrible decision, even thirty years late. It only takes a second of kissing Stuart to wipe the doubt from his mind, and he grabs Stuart’s shirt to pull him in closer.

He’s not going to say it makes him feel young again. He’s too old for that. Besides, he never did this when he was young. Stuart’s lips are dry underneath his, and it takes barely a minute before he deepens the kiss, biting Tom’s lip to press inside. 

Tom sinks back into the sofa and pulls Stuart with him, crowding himself into the corner cushions and forcing Stuart to brace himself on one knee or risk collapsing on top of him. The kiss somehow manages to feel languid and intense at the same time, and Tom is barely paying attention to the world around him when a hand drops to his dick and he jerks at the contact.

The kiss breaks and Stuart pulls away, a little dazed and a little concerned.

“Is it not.. I can stop—”

“No, it’s fine, it’s just… It’s been…”

He doesn’t know how to finish the sentence, so he doesn’t bother and pulls Stuart in again, kissing him harder and dropping his free hand to the waist of his trousers. It doesn’t take long for Stuart to get with the program, and he’s yanking at Tom’s belt and shoving his boxers out of the way as fast as he can.

When Stuart finally gets his hand on Tom’s cock, Tom has to pull away for a second, breathing harshly against Stuart’s cheek. He can feel Stuart grin against his skin, his teeth scraping against Tom’s jaw while Tom struggles to get himself under control.

He gives up, biting back into Stuart’s mouth and fumbling for Stuart’s fly, trying to get into his boxers before he embarrasses himself. When he finally shoves Stuart’s trousers down over his hips, Stuart laughs into his mouth when he slides his hand around his cock.

It was never going to take long, not when it’s been thirty years in the making. 

When he comes, Tom collapses back into the sofa and closes his eyes. When he opens them, Stuart is still above him, looking both gloriously disheveled and concerned.

“Tell me it hasn’t taken eleven seconds for you to regret this.”

Tom smiles softly, reaching up to run a thumb across Stuart’s cheekbone. “No regrets.”

“Thank fuck.” Stuart sinks back onto his heels and smiles. “Cigarette?”

“I really shouldn’t.” But he reaches out to take one anyway.

Stuart lights his own, then lights Tom’s with the end of his.

“Don’t tell Sophia I let you smoke inside.”

Tom shakes his head and tamps down the tiny spark of _something_ he feels at the suggestion he’ll ever meet Stuart’s daughter.

They smoke in silence, occasionally catching each other’s eye and grinning stupidly. Finally, Stuart yawns and stretches.

“I’d ask you to stay over, but I imagine you have fifty-three things to do before breakfast tomorrow.”

Tom checks his watch. It’s already far later then he should be out. “Unfortunately.”

Stuart gets to his feet and smoothes himself into a more presentable state, then holds his hand out so Tom can pull himself upright. When he’s got his shirt back in his trousers, Stuart offers his arm and walks him back down to the car park, where his driver is drinking a coffee and reading the paper behind the wheel.

“I’m going to call you tomorrow. To ask you if you want to do this again.”

Tom smiles. “This exactly?”

Stuart shrugs. “If you like, but I have a whole list of options.”

“I like the sound of that.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

“I’ll put it in my diary.”

Stuart grins and presses his lips against Tom’s neck, just for a second. “And next time, wear your glasses.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

**Author's Note:**

> the poem Dakin quotes is 'you are tired' by ee. cummings, who I chose because he was the overwhelming response to the question 'what poet would a middle-aged man use for seduction. The second, half-quote isn't supposed to be in direct reference to anything, it just sounds like something someone else has said at some point.


End file.
